


Mine's a Snorer

by The_Persian_Slipper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief mentions of dementia (OC), Fluff, John snores, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Slash, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Secret Santa, Sherlock Secret Santa 2018, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 13:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17245334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Persian_Slipper/pseuds/The_Persian_Slipper
Summary: After more than a year of sharing a flat, it takes a case outside of London for Sherlock to realize that John snores. Fascinated by this new fact about his friend, Sherlock applies all his abilities to understand how this important piece of information has slipped his notice for so long.A Secret Santa gift for Thrilmalia - Happy Hollidays!





	Mine's a Snorer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thrilmalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrilmalia/gifts).



John snored.

Not like the soft snuffles of the boys in his old dormitory or the wheezing coughs and whines of the junkies that infested his usual dens. He snored with an open-mouthed, palate-vibrating, chest-ressonating inhalation that might have made the inn’s old window panes flutter in their frames if they weren't firmly closed against the cold October night.

This fact shocked and embarrassed Sherlock in equal measures. How could he, a man with a whole wing of his Mind Palace dedicated to the cataloging of every aspect of John Watson, have this enormous, unforgivable gap in his knowledge? Never mind this boring case, the current economy or the tedious Solar System! John Watson snored!

Sherlock closed his laptop and quietly pushed back his chair. He padded his way towards his single bed and sat down as soundlessly as the old spring mattress allowed. After comfortably arranging his limbs, he concentrated his attention on the man sleeping soundly (and sonorously) on the opposite bed.

How could this be?

Once again, John had managed to do something unpredictable and take Sherlock by surprise. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. If there was anything one could rely on, it was the utter unpredictability of John Watson.

Sherlock shook his head to clear his mind. This was no time for indulgences. His knowledge has been shown to be wanting and now he must correct this oversight.

The imposing question was: How could the fact that his flatmate of two years snored, slipped his notice for so long?

Arguably, this was the first time John had actually slept in Sherlock's presence. Yes, he had occasionally witnessed the man nap on the sitting-room sofa on lazy Sunday afternoons, or take a quick kip sitting on a desk when Sherlock had been too wired to stop the investigation for something as frivolous as resting.

Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin and delved into his memories. He remembered one morning when he came out of his bedroom to find John passed out drunk after a night out with Lestrade, sleeping fully clothed on the living room rug and using his bomber jacket as a pillow. He hadn’t been snoring then, so why was he snoring now? Sherlock knew that the sleep induced by alcohol intoxication was different from natural sleep, but if anything, it would induce further muscle relaxation, thus facilitating the act of snoring.

First hypothesis: John only snores when sleeping in a bed. And that was something Sherlock had never witnessed until now, not fully.

He laid out the relevant facts in his mind for inspection. Back in Baker Street, while Sherlock always kept his bedroom door open, John made sure to always keep his own closed (and sometimes locked - silly John). Sherlock briefly considered the sound conductivity of the different building materials in Baker Street. Yes, a closed door might have hindered some sounds traveling from the upstairs bedroom to the lower floor if one considered...

A particularly vigorous snore shook Sherlock from his thoughts. Still asleep, John sniffed and scratched his nose and once again began snoring in earnest.

No, Sherlock thought, even with both doors closed, such a portentous noise should have traveled through the structure of their flat and be heard by Sherlock in his room. In all honesty, it should have been heard by the whole street!  
The detective quickly scanned his memories. He had never heard anything resembling snoring coming from the upstairs bedroom. Not when Sherlock lied awake in his bed, cataloguing every creak and squeak in the old flat. Not even on those long nights when Sherlock continued working in the living-room while John retired upstairs.

He could even exclude the factor of the closed door.

His mind presented the memory of the early morning of August 15th that year, when Sherlock had just returned home after a long night working in St. Bart’s laboratory. He had just climbed the first flight of stairs when he was greeted by the sight of John’s latest conquest quietly making her way down from the upstairs bedroom. Clasping her handbag and high heels, her hair was dishevelled and her make-up ruined. _Accountant, mother of one, recently divorced, still has feelings for her ex-husband, feeling guilty about leaving her son all night with the babysitter._ She had been startled by the detective’s dark figure on the stairway, but had recovered just as fast, mumbling a “Good morning,” and quickly disappearing down the stairs and into the street. Sherlock had had the presence of mind to go and make sure John had not just been assassinated, so he climbed halfway up the stairs to the second floor to peek inside his darkened room. The door had been left open and he could make out John’s figure, sleeping on his back, definitely breathing and definitely not snoring.

Sherlock took a deep breath and steepled his fingers under his chin.  
His first hypothesis was proven wrong. John did not always snore. Not even in his own bed, where he would feel the most secure, and therefore, relaxed. Neither recognized relaxants like alcohol and post-coital status influenced the muscle tonus of his soft palate and pharynx. He furrowed his brow. There was something else… There was always something else.

To recognize the relevant factors, one needed to isolate and modulate the experiment’s conditions. In this present circumstance, John had eaten a light dinner of chicken and rice, and had only drank a glass of red wine. He had been displaying no symptoms of illness, although he had been complaining of being overtired, lately. That was why John had insisted they took this case (a mere 5) which forced them to leave London for a few days. “It’s the closest we will ever get to a holiday” he had said. Maybe fatigue was the trigger? No, that was easily disproved.  
There was no point in waking John at this hour to make him drink alcohol and eat fatty foods (where could one find a chip shop at 2.30 in the morning in St. Ives?). Opening the windows to irritate John’s oversensitive sinuses might not be time-effective and probably would be considered a bit not good. Besides, the case that had brought them to rural Cornwall was still unfolding and although it looked like a disappointing case of embezzlement, Sherlock should make sure to keep them both in perfect health in case the suspects proved to be a bit more slippery than estimated.

There was nothing more than to wait for another opportunity for John to sleep in Sherlock's presence, while modulating the possible causes for his episodic snoring.

Sherlock took this opportunity to catalogue all the new raw facts of John’s sleeping patterns. John had gone to bed at 1.35 am, leaving Sherlock to work on his laptop. He had fallen asleep 10 minutes after turning off his bedside lamp and started snoring at exactly 2.20 am. He was now sleeping on his right side, facing Sherlock and the bedroom door. His right hand was tucked under his pillow, while his left was resting on his right elbow, holding it. He could roughly make out the position of his legs under the heavy blankets, right knee bent and left leg straight.  
Sherlock then turned his attention to John’s face, tinted orange by the street light outside their window. His expression was relaxed despite the dark bags under his eyes. His mouth hung slightly open and his lips formed a slight O shape with every exhale and relaxed with every sonorous inhale. Out and in. Out and in.  
Sherlock took all this new information to deposit in his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and entered the main hall. As he passed under the chandeliers, he noticed that their crystal beads trembled softy, rhythmically. Then, climbing up the marble staircase to ascend to the first floor, he noticed the portraits vibrating in the same rhythm. When he turned left to his John Watson Wing he could definitely make out a rumbling noise with each vibration. As he walked further along the hall, the sound grew stronger, shaking the very walls and opening cracks along the ceiling. Sherlock quickened his pace as objects started to fall down shelves and cabinets, shattering at his feet. Finding the door to the room he wanted, he reached his hand to the brass door handle, bits of plaster falling from the walls-

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Sh’lok, wassat?” John startled awake, sitting up and scanning the dark room with bleary eyes.

“Uh, nothing… Just, go back to sleep, it’s nothing.” Sherlock answered quickly, waving his hand in dismissal.

John fixed him with a skeptical look, as serious as one could with puffy eyes and hair sticking out on the right side of his head. Sherlock looked back as innocently and nonchalantly as he knew how. Sufficiently convinced, John laid back down and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost immediately. Sherlock remained still, looking expectantly at his flatmate’s sleeping form, but the snoring did not resume. Fascinating!

Might as well go back to the embezzling case, he thought. The Work must not suffer. He returned to his seat at the desk and opened his laptop, delving back into the spreadsheet in front of him.

At precisely 2.50 am, the snoring recommenced. Sherlock rested his face on his palms.

This man will be the death of him.

 

\----

 

The next morning, John found the world’s only consulting detective sitting fully clothed inside the small bathtub, typing away on the laptop perched precariously on his knees.  
Sherlock gave silent praise to John’s ability to adapt to his flatmate’s idiosyncrasies. The doctor's only response to the scene that greeted him was to halt by the door and raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Helps me think.” Sherlock answered the silent question.

John stepped in front of the sink and washed his face. “Well, you can think somewhere else now, I need to piss.” When no answer came from the bathtub he only added “And I’m not doing it with you in here, go!”

With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock closed his laptop and stepped out of the bathtub. He took a moment to stretch his aching back and neck. A soft chuckle made him turn around. John was leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, wearing an amused expression that said _Looks like you are getting old like the rest of us_.

Sherlock turned his nose up in the air and left, making sure to leave both the bathroom and the bedroom doors wide open.

 

\----

 

The study of John’s snoring had to be put on hold for some time. Sherlock solved the insipid Cornwall case by lunchtime and by 3pm they were already on the train back to London, summoned by a text from Lestrade.

But that didn’t mean the Snoring Case was forgotten.

Sherlock made a mental note to take any cases, however small, that would require spending one or more nights outside of London. Well, at least anything over a 4 - he did have standards.  
But therein lay the rub. Despite his reputation, private clients outside the greater London area were few and far between. At least those with cases interesting enough for Sherlock to take on without raising John’s suspicions. Lestrade was also reluctant to give him the contacts of his colleagues in rural areas so he could harass them for cases. Sherlock was forced to wait for the right opportunity in order to continue his investigation.

After 3 months of waiting, the perfect case landed on his lap.

  
Mr Peterson, butler to the Lady Violet Herbert, came to 221B at the end of his wits. The elderly lady, clearly experiencing the first stages of dementia, had taken to hiding her precious jewelry in various nooks and crannies of her castle in fear of being robbed, and then promptly forgetting she had done so. Mr Peterson had so far been able to find all of the hidden items and return them to his employer's jewelry-box - except for an emerald necklace. And now Lady Herbert was accusing Mr Peterson of stealing and threatening to throw him out in disgrace!

"Oh, sir! I've searched every inch of the castle for the necklace and came out empty handed." the butler lamented. "If anyone can find the missing jewelry it's you, Mr Holmes! Please, will you come?"

“Of course, Mr Peterson. We’ll be glad to help.” Sherlock assured the anxious butler with a smile.

From the corner of his eye, he saw John’s head turning to him in surprise. “We will?” John asked in astonishment.

  
“Yes, we will.” Sherlock confirmed. “We will take the evening train to Exeter and we shall meet you and Lady Herbert at the castle first thing in the morning.” He stood up and steered Mr Peterson towards the door. The man was so thankful he didn’t realize he was being dismissed. “Rest assured, Mr Peterson, I will find the necklace. Now if you will excuse me, we need to make some arrangements before we set off. Goodbye!”

“What are you on about?” The doctor asked as soon as Sherlock closed the living room door.

  
“A priceless necklace is missing, we must retrieve it!” He explained, making a beeline to his laptop.

  
“Really?” John crossed his arms “The woman is paranoid and disoriented, it’s textbook Alzheimer’s. What’s your real interest in this case?”

  
Sherlock had been expecting this question and delivered the lie he had prepared. “The Exeter Library holds a very interesting manuscript from the fifteenth century concerning various plant-based poisons. I’ve been wanting to take a look at it for quite some time and since Mr Peterson will be so kind as to pay for our travel expenses, it seems like a perfect opportunity for a visit.” He pointed at the train schedules in that had just appeared in his screen “We’ll take the train to Exeter and a rental car from there to a nearby village. We can have a nice dinner and settle in. We’ll meet Lady Herbert first thing in the morning, I’ll retrieve the necklace in under one hour and then charm the old lady into forgiving her butler. We’ll have the rest of the day to ourselves and be back at Baker Street before dinner time.”

John looked at his flatmate for a moment. “That actually makes some sense....” He admitted.

  
“See? Now go pack your things, I’ll book the tickets.” Sherlock said, shooing John away.

  
“Really? What about you?” John hovered by the door. He was usually the one to take care of all the arrangements so he found Sherlock’s solicitude unusual.

  
“In a moment.” He answered. “I just need to email my contact at the library.”

  
That last detail seemed to convince John. “Ok, don’t forget to book us a place to stay. I’m not sleeping in some moldy old castle.” He called out, already climbing the steps to his room.

  
“Of course.” Sherlock smiled at the screen.

 

\----

 

It was already night time when they reached their destination. Sherlock parked their rental car by a depressing looking three-story building, the only inn in the village.

  
“At least you could have picked a nicer place.” John grumbled as he took out their bags from the boot.

  
“This village is the closest to both the castle and Exeter. And since your only requirement was that you sleep in a mould-free environment, I thought this was the most sensible choice.” He locked the car and went in, leaving John to negotiate the bags.

The inn’s interior was as dismal as the exterior. The beige walls were freshly painted but the decor hadn’t been touched since the early 70’s. The young woman at the desk was distractedly typing away at her phone, but put it away immediately when she noticed Sherlock’s presence. _Recently dropped out of university, took this job at her mother’s insistence, social-media addict, first week on the job._

  
“Sherlock Holmes, I made a reservation.” the detective announced, handing her the reservation printouts.

  
“Yes, of course.” she answered with a nervous smile “Here’s your key, let me show you to your room.”

  
The young woman bolted from behind her desk and up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to follow her to the second floor towards their room. She opened the door for Sherlock’s inspection. The detective entered the room and stopped in his tracks.

  
_Oh no. This isn’t right..._

  
He turned back to the young woman. “This was not what I asked for.” He said, testily.

  
“I’m sorry sir, but you asked for a double bedroom, didn’t you?” she looked anxiously between Sherlock and the printouts in her hand.

  
He crowded the unfortunate girl. “Yes, I asked for a room with two beds!”

  
“But that’s not-”

  
“What’s wrong?” John was slowly climbing up the stairs with a duffle bag on each hand.

  
Sherlock met his flatmate at the top of the stairs and took his duffle bag from him.“There seems to be a misunderstanding.” he explained. “I asked for a room with two beds...”

  
The young woman turned to John, with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry sir, but we have no other available rooms. Maybe I can call the nearest inn, see if they-”

  
“That’s alright, we’ll take it.” John said calmly.

  
“You will?” Her smile could have lit the gloomy corridor.

  
“Yes, it’s no problem.” he reassured her “Thank you. Good evening.” He entered the room, leaving Sherlock looking flabbergasted in the middle of the corridor.

“Leave it to you to make this sort of mistake.” John said from the bathroom when he heard Sherlock close the door behind him.

  
“Well, maybe they need to make themselves clearer.” he answered testily and sat at the foot of the queen size bed, duffle bag at his feet.

John walked back to the room and put his own bag on the left side of the bed. He took out his change of clothes and toiletries and started to put them away in the available wardrobe, silently and efficiently.

  
Sherlock felt right about ready to crawl out of his skin. He had to break the awkward silence. “John, I really didn’t mean to-”

  
“Sherlock, it’s alright.” he turned to the detective, putting his hands up, conciliatory “I was a soldier, remember? I’m used to sleeping in barracks. And it’s only for one night, isn’t it?” he added amicably.

  
“Yes…”

  
“So come on, let’s find a place to eat.” he put his empty bag under the bed and patted Sherlock’s shoulder on the way out.

 

\----

 

  
They had dinner at the village’s pub. John ate his fill of beef hotpot and insisted Sherlock have a proper portion as well.

  
“Don’t give me that “digestion slows me down” nonsense.” he had said between mouthfuls. “We both know this case will be a no-brainer.”

  
They had a couple of pints with their dinner and finished it off with a tumbler of passable whiskey. As they walked back to the inn, John was already yawning loudly and Sherlock had to admit he could feel the pull of sleep after a satiating meal. But he mustn’t succumb to the temptation! He had to make the most of this priceless opportunity to advance his study.

In their room, they took turns to use the bathroom and change into their sleeping clothes. When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, John was already lying on the left side of the bed, thumbing through his phone.

  
“You don’t mind sleeping on that side, do you? I’m used to sleeping on the left.” he asked.

  
Sherlock suddenly felt a jolt of nervousness. He was about to share a bed with John Watson. For science, of course. But still...

  
“Uh, no, it’s alright…” Sherlock said lamely.

  
Suddenly aware he was standing in the middle of the room, he hastily occupied his side of the bed and turned off his bedside lamp. John put his phone away, cutting off the only source of light in the room.

  
“Well, goodnight.” He said and yawned deeply. “Thanks for the mould-free room.”

  
“Ha ha, hilarious.” Sherlock replied, but John was already falling asleep.

  
_Perfect_. He thought. _With a stomach full of beef and beer, it won’t be long before John starts to snore._

  
Sherlock turned gingerly on his right side and waited for his vision to adapt to the darkened room. Slowly, he started to discern the contour of John’s sleeping form, laying on his back and breathing softly. Then, his eyes showed him the finer details of his expression. His furrowed brow, his closed lips, his small hands, neatly folded on his stomach.  
Sherlock took all this in and then concentrated on the sound of John’s breathing, waiting for the change of pattern.  
But the change wouldn’t come. After almost two hours of observation, John continued to sleep silently. This didn’t make sense. The bed was comfortable enough and the room was at a standard temperature and darkness level. John had been in good spirits all day and had ingested a full meal and a good amount of alcohol before going to bed. Enough time had passed for him to go through a full REM cycle, he should have started snoring by now.  
The detective let out an irritated breath. All this trouble for nothing... Although dinner had been nice and he was looking forward to visiting the library, he supposed. Maybe they could have a cream tea afterwards…

Sherlock was jolted awake by a loud snore. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings in the darkness and calm his thumping heart.  
John had moved in his sleep and was lying on his left side, facing him. Sherlock had also moved in his sleep and was much closer to the center of the bed. Much closer to John…  
He could feel his cheeks heat and gave silent thanks that no one could witness his lapse. He shifted back to the edge of the bed, making the matress creek. The noise must have disturbed his bedmate from his deep sleep because John mumbled incoherently, turned on his back and, surprisingly, stopped snoring.  
Sherlock freezed.

_Could it be?_

  
After a few minutes, John’s breathing pattern did not change.  
Sherlock reached a long arm towards his left shoulder and pushed ever so slightly. Obligingly, John turned on his right side and started snoring immediately. _Yes!_ Again, Sherlock touched his shoulder and coaxed John into lying on his back.

The snoring stopped.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at himself. He had finally cracked the code! After all his troubles, he now knew what made John snore!

  
He could now sleep soundly knowing this gap in his knowledge had been filled. He burrowed further under the duvet and took a deep, satisfied breath.

Beside him, John turned towards him again and started snoring in earnest. Sherlock furrowed his brow. Now he was just making fun of him. He pushed John on his back to keep him quiet, but he just turned on his other side and continued snoring. Sherlock could finally see why people used the phrase “sawing logs”. John’s breathing could rival any working chainsaw. He briefly considered waking him up, but that would just mean John would be cranky all day long. He did need his sleep.  
Sherlock shushed him, clicked his tongue, but none of the soft noises seemed to penetrate the wall of sound John was producing.

  
The detective took his left shoulder again and turned him on his back, but this time kept a steadying hand on the man’s chest. That seemed to keep John put and blissfully silent. Not a very convenient solution, Sherlock knew, but he only needed a few hours of sleep and he would be awake long before John knew what had happened. He closed his eyes and concentrated his attention on John’s breathing.

In and out, in and out, in and out...

  
Sherlock woke again with the bright sunlight filling the bedroom. The first thing he registered was the deep feeling of relaxation he felt after a good night’s sleep.

The second were John’s arms holding him in a warm embrace.

  
“John?”

  
“Hm…” John mumbled, still asleep. Sherlock could feel his friend's voice resonate under his cheek.

  
“John.” Sherlock called again, more vigorously this time.

  
“Hn? Oh, yes, sorry… ” John took his hands away from his back as if scalded. Sherlock raised his head from John’s chest and laid it on his own pillow.

  
John was looking at the empty space between them. Was he blushing? “Nothing else worked…” he muttered.

  
“Worked?” Sherlock repeated softly, furrowing his brow.

  
“You wouldn’t shut up any other way.” John explained and rubbed at his stubbled cheeks, still avoiding his friend's eyes.

  
“What?” Sherlock asked, anxiously.

  
John took a deep breath and finally met his gaze. “You sleep talk, Sherlock, a lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it. Like always, Sherlock missed something. Did you get what it was?
> 
> This is my first shot at writing fiction, I hope you like it!  
> I'd like to thank CarmillaCarmine, AurorFelicis3755 and Todaywearesoldiers for their encouragement. I'd also like to thank my mom's snoring for giving me the inspiration to write this fic.


End file.
